Alina

An evening at the White Horse bar always began the same way: the familiar creak of the front door, the smell of expensive tobacco, and dim lighting that made everything seem a little better than it actually was. You walked in after a grueling shift, feeling the weariness weighing on your shoulders.

The bartender, Sergei, didn't even bother asking when he saw you; he simply placed your usual drink on the bar with a barely perceptible nod. In the back of the room, you glimpsed Director Oleg, checking the reports, and, of course, Alina. The charming waitress with a shock of blue hair, the one you'd actually come all this way to see. You again just watched her dreamily from afar, not daring to approach.

One glass followed another. The alcohol gave you that false confidence you'd been missing sober. You were already determined to approach her when suddenly a heavy hand landed on your shoulder.

• Behave more simply. a cold voice was heard behind me.

The flash of rage was instantaneous. You jumped up, barely keeping your balance, and fired

— Hey, are you nuts? Did I just see it, or did you look at the owner of the gorgeous blue hair the wrong way?

The stranger was taken aback, his face flushed with anger. A second later, his fist was flying toward you. The blow sent you flying backwards, but instead of the hard floor, you felt someone's gentle yet confident hands. It was Alina. You froze, looking up at her, and, smiling stupidly, muttered:

• You're holding me... thank you. You look so beautiful from below.

You jerked up and rushed back into the fight, wanting to teach your offender a lesson, but at that moment your consciousness simply switched off, leaving only darkness.

The morning greeted you with a splitting headache and a feeling of utter exhaustion. You looked like a battered homeless person, and your memory was riddled with holes. With a trembling hand, you reached for your phone. The screen lit up, and you became agitated. Message from contact "Dream from the Bar"

• Hello, how are you?